


Loose Threads

by fritz, Oodles



Category: Original Work
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality, Disabled Character of Color, M/M, Magical Realism, Queer Themes, Questioning, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-17 02:01:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11265630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fritz/pseuds/fritz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oodles/pseuds/Oodles
Summary: Parsifal and Benoit are stranded for a night while someone is searching for the good doctor.





	Loose Threads

**Author's Note:**

> This is a piece written by Oodles about the original characters created by fritz! I had so much fun writing it. Thank you kindly, good sir.

_ Don’t call it fate.  _

 

The crack of gunshots, the sting of antiseptic, and the gentle piercing of a needle. He sews a love letter through Benoit’s skin with thread, glittering and unbreakable. Fresh, spun from his own temples, he could turn it hard as diamond, but for Ben, only velvet. 

The man on his table has his eyes shut tight. Despite his willingness to throw himself in front of a knife, Ben cannot tolerate the suturing. Parsifal used to tease him about it, but it didn’t get him anywhere, so he turned instead to humming an old lullaby to set the man’s nerves at ease. 

Watching Benoit’s expression shift like phases of the moon from bracing to calm is the metric by which Parsifal knows he is succeeding. If he can get the man afraid of needles to relax while he treats his wounds, then he has done well. There is always a pause when the thread is cut,  _ all set _ and the quiet  _ thank you  _ in response. Throat cleared, and a test of the wounded limb before Ben stands and gives his approval. 

Parsifal has come to enjoy these small sessions. Never in his life would he wish for Benoit to get harmed, but he finds himself grateful that he is only one to get to stitch him up. A cruel partnership really. Healer and fighter, gathered up in a tangle of lavender thread. Possessive perhaps, but Parsifal did not ask to be this way. 

He did not ask for sleepless nights fueled by rich coffee and the circuitry of his mind lit up like the New York skyline, impossible puzzles left only for him to solve, destiny teasing him with the prospect of a cure. To what? It doesn’t matter. Anything is better than nothing and his brain must be put to use or else there is nothing for him. 

There is no strength left in his legs to pace, and so now his thoughts carry the weight of his restlessness. 

Then there are the days spent sleeping off the high, the sinking feeling that pulls him into endless waters— thinking he will never reach his potential, thinking the fall into a rift was nothing but a curse on his name and his body. Pointless, pointless, fucking pointless. 

The cycle was destined to repeat itself, orbiting the sun so predictably. It never used to matter who was there with him. And then—

Benoit was brought to Parsifal drowning in his own blood, bones shattered from bullets, secrets laced through his dying breaths. Parsifal worked on him for hours, caught in the haze of mania, some imaginary notion whispering to him that this was important and it did not matter who the man was. Later, Benoit described the experience as being held underwater, staring at the sun beyond, one hand breaking the surface, and the other tied to an impossible weight. 

_ You took my hand and pulled me back to shore. _

Parsifal watched the color return to his face, the slow opening of his eyes— a man come back to life. Honestly, nothing he hadn’t seen before; but, though the act was a repeat, the actor was new. Parsifal stared into Benoit’s eyes and witnessed the moment of clear perception. He had been dead and was now alive and things were irrevocably different for him.

_ Thanks to you _ .

Over the years of stitching people back together, many had offered unique forms of payment. Never before had an oath of loyalty been sworn to him. Parsifal would never have accepted it from anyone else, but he had always been weak to a certain kind of angle in a man’s face. 

Handsome, and so much more than he bargained for. 

Parsifal’s initial answer had been a simple  _ for now _ . Benoit had remained by his side for months, gun in hand and his own curious brand of caution that Parsifal enjoyed throwing to the wind. 

 

\-------

 

Benoit has gotten used to the smell of antiseptic by now. Parsifal’s office retains it like the cigarette smoke permanently caught up in Benoit’s bedsheets. 

“Is there nothing to be done about that?” Benoit asks, wrinkling his nose. 

Parsifal quirks an eyebrow, eyes drifting up from the charm in his hand. “Now we have something to say about scent? How many times have I cautioned you against putting tar in your lungs?”

Benoit straightens his tie. “I lost count after twenty three.”

Parsifal is smiling at him, Benoit can tell without making eye contact. There is always a shift in the room when Parsifal smiles. 

“Do you make a habit of keeping lists like that?” Parsifal asks. 

Benoit forces himself to look back at the other man. “No need to doctor me now. You’re not a psychiatrist anyway.”

“How do you know?” Parsifal leans back in his wheelchair and sets the little charm aside-- another stolen trinket from the last place they investigated. Parsifal seemed excited by the old wooden carving, mentioning something about outdated religious practices. “Do you see a degree anywhere in here?”

Benoit scans the room quickly, taking in every diagram and chart and piece of art hung up on the walls, surrounding bookshelves and cabinets full of who-knows-what. It is rather crowded for a doctor’s office, but, no-- Parsifal is right, not a degree in sight. Parsifal lifts a hand to gesture around his little office. “Do you think people come here to admire a framed degree? No, they come here to get stitched back together. Like you, right Ben?”

Benoit frowns. “It's Benoit.”

“Such a mouthful,” Parsifal sighs. “You know, for someone who swore their loyalty to me, in spectacular fashion I might add, you're awfully unreceptive to my suggestions.”

Benoit’s gaze skips away from Parsifal. “If I had something else to give you, I would.”

“Are you trying to hurt my feelings?” Parsifal asks, leaning his chin on his fist. 

The question draws Benoit’s gaze. 

“Do you have no interest in me, Ben?” Parsifal asks, the unexpected sincerity in his voice a bit disarming. 

Benoit opens his mouth, but his brain is a bit too slow to fill the silence. 

“How long has it been now?” Parsifal asks, letting out a sigh. He lifts a hand up to his temple and Benoit feels like the atmosphere in the room has changed, almost like a storm is on its way-- the smell of ozone, of summer rain. 

As Parsifal coaxes out some thread, circling the end around his index finger, Benoit finds himself staring again. Such a fascinating process.

“We’ve been to dinner several times,” Parsifal talks slowly, no doubt torn between the concentration of speech and this otherworldly spinning. “I know for a fact that one of those times, you took me to a favorite restaurant. Not  _ the _ favorite, of course, you don’t move that fast, but the waitress recognized you-- just not enough to know your name. You’ve thrown yourself in front of a knife for me, and allowed me to tend to the wound, but you won’t call me Percy when I ask you to.”

Benoit swallows as Parsifal finishes spinning, bringing the two ends together and joining them with a deep breath. 

“When will you let me meet the dog?” Parsifal asks.

Benoit exhales slowly. 

“No amount of lint rollers could extricate all that fur,” Parsifal adds, amused. 

Nerves have settled like stiff wires through Benoit’s body, straightening his posture. Parsifal must notice, because his face falls and he turns his attention back to the thread, wrapping the loop around his palms and setting about another game of cat’s cradle. 

“No matter,” Parsifal says, attempting nonchalance. “I just wanted you to know that I’d be interested. Perhaps you’ll need a sitter one day in a pinch.”

“I appreciate…” Benoit doesn’t finish his sentence. Neither of them push the point. 

They are too set in their ways to know how to handle this shift in dynamic. Be polite, hold the door, pull the trigger, wipe the blood clean, cut the edges soft,  _ we’ll be alright, just keep moving forward. How else can we proceed? _

“About that lead,” Parsifal goes on. “I don’t think we’ve learned anything useful today.”

Benoit shakes his head, glad that Parsifal doesn’t see the need to continue on the previous line of dialogue. They are back on track.

 

Parsifal is making a house call the next day, and requested Benoit’s protection. The daughter of a well established trader (that is, a black market dealer) has recently come down with a bad case of  _ caught in the crossfire _ . Benoit expects some awful scene: intense regret, confusion, chaos. What he finds is a young girl, proud, not bothered at all by the recent dagger slash across the arm. 

“Shoulda seen the other guy,” she said when Benoit asked if she was alright. 

Parsifal fixed her up quickly, collected his obscene amount of payment, and off they went. 

“Why don’t you leave the bedside manner to me,” Parsifal remarked, smirking, when they were back in the car. 

Benoit sighed, putting the vehicle in drive and glancing at the doctor to make sure his seatbelt was buckled. “Sorry… Percy.” He tries out the nickname, knowing he paused for too long, but unable to take it back.

Parsifal looks as though he’s choking on his words, if choking could be a pleasurable activity, which Benoit is not familiar with personally. A smile blooms across Parsifal’s lips. 

“Not a problem,” he goes on. “It was sort of hilarious to see the look on your face.” He leans his arm on the door. “Giselle is her name. She’s rather fierce. Not the first time I’ve treated her for getting into a scrap.”

Benoit allows a small laugh at that. “I suppose she takes after her father?”

“Her mother, actually,” Parsifal goes on, turning his grin to Benoit. “You’ve got to love the family business.”

Benoit is only able to meet Parsifal’s gaze for a brief second, something overt in the doctor’s eyes. Benoit drives them back toward Parsifal’s office, and Parsifal unwinds some thread, likely to listen back at home for any distress. A regular occurrence, which Benoit encourages, considering the people that Parsifal often treats.

Benoit is reaching for the radio when Parsifal’s eyes widen.

“Shit,” he mutters.

Benoit glances back and forth between the road and his employer.

“Someone’s there,” Parsifal says, thread looped around his ear. “They’re poking around the office.”

“What are they looking for?” Benoit asks, hands tightening around the steering wheel. 

“Could be any number of things,” Parsifal says, too calm for Benoit’s liking. 

“Are they going to find something?” Benoit asks next. 

Parsifal runs a finger across the thread, as if adjusting some kind of dial. “Of course not. I don’t keep any important records in the office, or my apartment.”

“What if they’re simply looking for  _ you _ ?” Benoit asks. 

Parsifal scratches his chin. “That could be a problem. It appears someone is at my home as well. They’ve been kind enough not to enter it, but the point stands. Maybe I shouldn’t go home tonight.”

Benoit sighs. “Would you like me to look for hotels nearby?”

“Yes, that would be appreciated,” Parsifal says. 

Benoit finds a place to park and quickly searches on his phone for a hotel suitable for a man such as Parsifal. Something comfortable with antique charm and a bar in the lobby. 

When they arrive, Benoit checks in for Parsifal, the other man’s gaze wandering around the room, appreciating the decor with an easy smile on. Benoit feels a small spark of pride at Parsifal’s approving expression. He  _ has _ come to know the good doctor. 

“Good choice, Ben,” Parsifal says on the elevator ride up. 

Benoit holds his head up a little higher. 

He unlocks the door to the room and brings Parsifal inside the small, stylish space. Parsifal claps once as Benoit turns the lights on. 

“What a lovely little spot,” Parsifal says, turning to Benoit. “One bed?”

Benoit pauses, fingers on the switch of a lamp. “There’s only one of you.”

Parsifal’s eyebrow quirks. “Was my bodyguard going to abandon me while god-knows-who is on the lookout for me?”

Benoit feels like a stone accidentally dropped into a bottomless lake. “Of… course not.”

“Right,” Parsifal says, clearly enjoying this turn of events. “Room service? Perhaps you’d like to rent a movie.”

Benoit takes a deep breath, quickly running through the options. He could ask if there is another available room, but damn, what if someone finds this one? He really shouldn’t be away if someone is, in fact, searching for Parsifal. Maybe he could get one of those roll-in cots, if this place isn’t too fancy for that. This room doesn’t even have a couch-- maybe he could purchase a sleeping bag. 

Parsifal chuckles. “Relax, I’ll behave. The real issue here is that all I have on me is my bag of medical treasures. How on earth will we pass the time?”

Benoit sighs. “I’m sure you’ll find a way. Are you still listening in?”

Parsifal nods, touching his ear where the thread is inconspicuously hidden, appearing like a piece of jewelry when studied closely. The pale lavender is almost handsome against Parsifal’s particular skin tone, but Benoit won’t allow himself to use that word. 

It has no place between them.

“Help me up?” Parsifal asks, gesturing to the bed.

Benoit gives a slight shake of his head, as if to clear his mind, and goes to Parsifal’s side. 

An hour later (after Benoit has contacted his neighbor about feeding Monty that evening, and perhaps the morning after–  _ yes, sudden business trip, so obnoxious _ ) they are watching a documentary, both sitting on the bed with space between. Benoit was given free rein to pick and Parsifal didn’t object to the borderline conspiracy theory collection on rift caverns. Benoit sits with legs crossed, watching interviews with people who’ve had close encounters with those magical gouges in the earth. Benoit has memories from growing up so close to one, and the strange occurrences that surrounded him. Snow in mid-July. That day when everyone went mute for a few hours, but no one seemed to have a problem communicating.

And the dreams. 

“When do you think people will give up trying to understand?” Parsifal asks. 

Benoit blinks and turns to him. “How can we ignore it?”

“I’m not saying we ignore it,” Parsifal says, gesturing at the TV. “Only that we accept and move on. They’re not going away anytime soon. We have more important things to focus on, like curing disease.”

“And what of diseases caused by the rifts?” Benoit asks. 

“The worst plague the rifts have caused is a sudden influx of human greed,” Parsifal says, venom seeping into his voice. “Idiotic creatures who want to harness their power. It’s pointless. If we just learned to live with them and went back to our lives--”

“Sometimes you can’t just go back to life,” Benoit speaks fast. “Irrevocable things happen because of them. I mean… look at you. Look at  _ me _ . We’ve both been affected in ways we can’t take back.”

“But who’s fault was that?” Parsifal asks, brows knit. “It wasn’t the rift that shot you to pieces and left you to die. It was whatever you were carrying at the time, that  _ thing _ . Humans shot you.”

“ _ Because _ of the rifts,” Benoit clarifies.

Parsifal turns away from Benoit. “You are rather infuriating sometimes. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Benoit’s response dies on his lips, a blush creeping up his neck.  _ You’re the infuriating one _ , he wants to say, but it feels childish, even if it's true. Sometimes it feels like Parsifal brings out the worst in him.

“Why don’t you want to talk about this?” Benoit asks quietly. “It’s fine that you don’t, I’m only curious.”

Parsifal pulls off the thread wrapped around his wrist and tangles up his fingers in it, not even attempting a pattern, merely busying himself. He lets out a short breath. 

“Life is too short to spend on unsolvable mysteries,” Parsifal says. “I’d rather be curing cancer.”

“But you’re agreeing to help me with my own mystery?” Benoit asks. 

Parsifal sighs, dramatic as usual, still staring at the thread. “There is a point to your mystery. Closure means a lot to people.”

Benoit is openly staring at him now. “You’re doing it just to help me find closure?”

Parsifal tilts his head to the side, deftly arranging the thread back into a cleaner shape. “I can’t deny my own curiosity, as well. But, yes, I would like to see this through, for your sake. I know it consumes you. I can practically see it weighing on you, day after day.”

Benoit considers this for a moment, but Parsifal doesn’t let it sink in for too long.

“Don’t act so surprised now,” he says. “I am capable of empathy from time to time.”

Benoit almost rolls his eyes. “Of course you are, Percy, you’re a doctor. I think you have to have some kind of potential for it.”

“Maybe,” Parsifal says, voice gone a bit quiet. He glances up from the thread. “Thank you, by the way.”

Benoit looks back at the TV, to some woman talking about how her perception of color was never the same after driving through a rift town. She sees people in shades of blue, says it’s sort of beautiful. “Not a problem…”

The compliment sings through the air, distracting. Neither of them acknowledge it, or each other for that matter. The woman speaks in the background:

“I just woke up one day and I was different.”

“Here,” Parsifal says. He holds his hands up to Benoit, glittering thread crisscrossed neatly between. “I’ll show you how to play with two people. It’ll pass the time.”

Benoit hesitates, but decides it’s harmless, so he scoots closer on the duvet. Not long after, Benoit has shed his jacket and Parsifal his sweater and they are engrossed in their little game. Benoit keeps trying to find new patterns to establish and ultimately tangles the string much too soon. Parsifal teases mercilessly, though he does not seem to mind. He demands names for every new shape, most of all when Benoit gets a knot wrapped tightly around his own thumb.

“I call it Parsifal’s web,” Benoit mutters as Parsifal attempts to free him. 

Parsifal smiles, abandoning the game to pull the thread lightly from Ben’s fingers. Benoit tries not to dwell on the fact that this is the most he has touched anyone in ages. Despite Parsifal’s constant remarks on Benoit’s appearance, mostly reminding him how he's lucky to be so handsome, this brushing of hands is not accompanied by the usual sinking feeling of dread. Benoit exploits Parsifal’s distraction in order to study the doctor’s face-- not something he has ever really done, and not just with Parsifal. Eye contact leads to active listening, which sets up expectations, which lead to disappointment. 

_ You're so distant. _

_ Why don’t you touch me? _

_ This isn't working. _

It wasn’t as though Benoit didn’t feel anything. It was moreso that, just because he had a passing thought about someone being attractive, it didn’t mean he would pursue them. He liked to think he was too well-organized for lust like that. 

A lust like Parsifal’s. Benoit knew all about it, because the man did absolutely nothing to hide it. Once, he’d even witnessed Parsifal wolf whistle at someone in broad daylight. The doctor had no shame, but something about it wasn’t completely undesirable. 

To be so bold. 

Benoit envied it a little. Things were so obvious on Parsifal’s face at all times and he didn’t care one bit about it. 

“You’ve got a curious look right now,” Parsifal says, lips curved. “What on earth are you thinking about?”

Benoit blinks, realizing he’s been caught staring. His gaze skitters away and he prepares a swift lie, but stops himself. Maybe he could try being shameless, for once. 

“I was thinking about you,” he admits. 

Parsifal wraps the thread back around his wrist, eyes a bit wide. “Were you now?”

“Yes,” Benoit goes on. “I was… debating the differences between us.”

“Pray tell,” Parsifal says, an easy smile on his face. He crosses one arm over his stomach and touches his chin with his other hand. “What comes to mind?”

Benoit takes his time, needing to catalogue the man in front of him: Parsifal is rather soft in the face, but the sharpness in his gaze is a stark and alluring contrast. The kind of person who calculates potential endings as they begin, Parsifal is undeniably intelligent. Neither haughty nor vain, he projects ease and comfort, and perhaps an invitation-- maybe it’s the artfully unkempt hair hanging to his shoulders, or the full lips asking for a moment of your time. Parsifal is somehow always in conversation, even when silent. 

Handsome-- a personality all wrapped up in the features of the face. Usually Benoit is adept at separating one from the other, but not so with Parsifal.  

“I imagine quite a few things,” Parsifal prompts, and Benoit knows he’s held his tongue for too long. 

“Yes, yes,” he stumbles back to language. “It’s merely… well, I wonder what drives us differently.”

“Well, seeing as I can’t drive at all,” Parsifal begins.

Benoit stammers for a moment. “I didn’t--”

Parsifal’s head tilts a little to the left. “My shining humor is wasted on you, Ben, honestly. Don’t stress so much. What are you trying to say?”

Benoit takes a quick little breath. “Why do you want so much?”

Parsifal’s expression shifts, curiosity blooming. “What do I want?”

“People,” Benoit clarifies. “You don’t bother to hide your attraction to anyone. You’re like a cartoon character possessed by lust. And it almost never works.”

Parsifal almost laughs. “A wheelchair isn’t the most alluring place to sit.”

“The wheelchair has nothing to do with how handsome you are,” Benoit says, not thinking twice about arguing his point.

Parsifal covers his mouth, eyes bright. “He thinks I’m handsome. My goodness, what a turn of events.”

“I-- ah,” Benoit realizes his mistake, face burning. “I’m only trying to ask… what makes you do it all the time?”

Parsifal looks away, tapping his cheek, before he nods once. “What’s your favorite food? Besides cigarettes?”

Benoit glares at him. “Ravioli.”

Parsifal grins. “I’ll pretend that’s true. So let’s say you had ravioli last night, and it was marvelous-- great meal, great wine to go with it. You had a lovely time and it felt amazing.”

Benoit nods along, waiting for the punchline.

“Riddle me this,” Parsifal goes on. “Why wouldn’t you try to then repeat that marvelous meal, if you had all the ingredients?”

Benoit frowns. “This feels too obvious to be the answer.”

“Ben,” Parsifal almost whispers. “Sex is marvelous. What can I say? I’d like to maybe have it once or twice again before I die. Preferably with a very beautiful man who doesn’t mind a bit of leg work.”

Benoit blinks, knowing he is embarrassed by the bluntness of the conversation, but he can’t help himself. “Pun intended?”

Parsifal pauses, the joke dawning on him, and then he is laughing as hard as Benoit has ever seen, big rich laughs that fill the room like smoke. “Ben!” He grabs Benoit by the shoulder, body shaking. “Leg work! I missed it!” He lets out a sigh, still kind of giggling. “Oh, that was a good one. I’m surprised at you. Poking fun at a man in a wheelchair. How unbecoming.”

Benoit is burning up. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Ah, forgive me,” Parsifal says, letting go of Ben’s shoulder. “Haven’t had a laugh like that in a while. Your embarrassment only makes it sweeter. ”

“This again,” Benoit sighs. “Why do you always say things like that?”

Parsifal’s grin hasn’t faded. He holds a hand up to his mouth, like he’s about to tell Benoit some deep secret. “You’re one of the beautiful ones. A man can dream. Or flirt, very loudly.”

Benoit drops his stare to his own hands.

“You can tell me to stop,” Parsifal adds, voice sobering up. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Not truly, anyway. A bit of teasing never hurt, of course.”

Benoit licks his own dry lips. “I just wonder… is there something wrong with how I perceive people? I’ve never in my life been driven to flirt the way you do.”

Parsifal shrugs. “We’re just very different people. No need to stress over it.”

“But I’ve never flirted with anyone,” Benoit goes on. “I don’t think, anyway. People just think that I am, and then they flirt with me and then suddenly we’ve been dating for six months, but they’re unhappy because I don’t ever initiate intimacy.”

When Benoit meets Parsifal’s gaze again, Benoit is even more embarrassed than before. Parsifal is staring very hard at Benoit. “Oh.”

“I didn’t mean to go into it like that,” Benoit apologizes quickly. 

“You’re fine,” Parsifal assures him. “Honestly. There’s nothing wrong with you at all. I promise. What gets me off isn’t the same as what gets you off. Simple.”

Benoit’s gaze drifts to the window. Evening has fallen and the city is cramped with artificial light, a hundred thousand stars packed into a few miles. “I don’t know what gets me off. Maybe nothing does.”

They are silent for a few seconds before Parsifal shifts and Benoit feels a light touch on his cheek. “You sound rather defeated. Does it bother you?”

Benoit suddenly  _ can’t _ look at Parsifal, not with the feather weight of the man’s fingertips against his face. “I don’t know. I’ve spent a long time being told something was wrong with me.”

There is the quietest sound that accompanies Parsifal running his thumb along Benoit’s cheekbone-- skin on skin. “It seems as though no one’s given you the space to figure it out properly.”

Benoit fights for a full breath as goosebumps sweep over his back. He knows what Parsifal is proposing before the question comes out. 

“If you ever wanted to try, I’d be a willing participant,” Parsifal says, voice gentle, touch gentler. “Please don’t mistake me for trying to pressure you, either. It’s only that I know how conflicted you are, and I don’t enjoy seeing that pain on you. Perhaps your life would be easier if you got to sort it out on your own terms.”

Benoit fights back the bit of anxiety fluttering in his chest to try to analyze the situation. When he ignores the voice in his head that says this is going to end poorly, he can enjoy the sensation of Parsifal drawing circles on his cheek. 

“This is nice,” Benoit says, voice dropping to a mumble. 

“Touch may be complex, but your reaction doesn’t have to be,” Parsifal whispers, continuing to stroke Benoit’s face. 

Benoit exhales, allowing the warning bells to fade. 

“I would be loathe to mess up your perfect coif, but…” Parsifal lets the sentence go. A few seconds pass before he decides to push his fingers up through Benoit’s hair. 

Benoit doesn’t say anything, just inches a bit closer to make it easier for Parsifal to reach him. He lets his head drop down a little, turning his gaze to the patterned carpet. Parsifal isn’t typically one for long stretches of quiet, but he seems engrossed in his own movements. The last time Benoit saw him this focused was during actual surgery. He was removing a fragment of a knife’s blade from the ribcage of a thief gone too far. Instead of asking what the woman had been trying to steal, or demanding she turn herself in, Parsifal set out right away to fix her up. Only after she was conscious again did they briefly discuss what happened, and the extent of it was mostly Parsifal warning her not to get caught on her way out. 

Sometimes, Benoit thinks to be bothered by Parsifal’s ethics. As if physical ails should take precedence over the law, over right and wrong. 

As if pushing Benoit’s boundaries should be what they’re focused on, when someone is looking for Parsifal. 

Fingers on his neck, playing with the collar of his shirt, asking without asking.

“Parsifal,” Benoit’s voice is dragged through a haze of something undefinable. Something he’s not used to. 

“You’re safe,” Parsifal says, both hands now on Benoit’s face. He’s pulling Benoit closer, and panic flutters through Benoit’s chest. 

“Wait,” he says, meeting Parsifal’s gaze. He hadn’t realized how close they’d gotten, and he can feel Parsifal’s breath on his face. 

Parsifal looks like he’s half-asleep or half-drunk or both, for the way he’s lazily studying Benoit’s face, hands still on his skin. He brushes his thumb over Benoit’s mouth. 

“Did you know that humans are the only mammals with fully exposed lips?” Parsifal says, apparently consumed by the sight. He rests his index finger against Benoit’s cupid’s bow, pressing just a little. 

Benoit knows he must look dumbstruck. This is much more than he bargained for, and, more surprising, he’s not entirely opposed to it. Maybe it’s the fact that Parsifal is so enraptured, but Benoit thinks this is almost pleasant. 

“I’ve thought far too much about kissing you,” Parsifal admits in a hush.

“Who  _ don’t _ you think about kissing?” Benoit tries to joke, but his voice wavers. 

“I’m not that bad,” Parsifal answers, finally looking back at Benoit’s eyes. “I swear it. I’m not just bored or desperate. You’re important to me.”

“I’m your employee,” Benoit responds, knowing he’s still getting drawn in closer.

“I won’t pay you for the next hour, if you like,” Parsifal says, touching his nose to Benoit’s, hands around Benoit’s neck, the warmth and pressure actually soothing, control being passed over.

Benoit wonders if this is what he’s been missing. The opposite of expectation. All Parsifal needs is permission. He doesn’t care that Benoit’s clueless. Maybe it’s okay, just for a little while. 

“How long will you keep me waiting, Ben?” Parsifal asks so quiet. 

“What if the edge is enough?” Benoit asks. 

Parsifal snakes his hand around Benoit’s tie, sliding it free from its clip. Parsifal pulls a little, just enough that Benoit stutters forward and throws his hand up against the headboard to stop the momentum. Parsifal smiles again, all the wickedness returning, and Benoit remembers who he’s dealing with.

“Shameless,” Benoit mutters, heart thundering. 

Parsifal looks calm as ever, still hanging onto Benoit’s tie. “But you were in it for a moment, weren’t you? I could see your thoughts racing.” He snickers. “Do you really think I’m handsome?”

Benoit sighs, expression dead. “A kindness I won’t make the mistake of paying twice.”

Parsifal laughs low. “Honesty is an important step in any intimate encounter, Ben.”

“It’s Benoit,” he responds. 

“Privileges lost, then, hm?” Parsifal smiles and tucks the tie back into place, smoothing it against Benoit’s chest. Benoit leans away from him, takes a deep breath and attempts to fix his hair. 

“How about I bid you goodnight,” Parsifal suggests. “I’ll keep to myself, I promise. Go ahead and put on whatever you like.”

Benoit takes his place leaning against the headboard with two feet of space between him and Parsifal. Silently, he selects some nature documentary before tossing the remote between them. Anger, frustration, and annoyance surge through him. He let that happen. Why did he let that happen? Parsifal will probably never let him forget it. A moment of weakness, that’s all. Confusion, clutter, panic. Nothing to worry over. They’ll set up again in the morning and it’ll be back to the way it was. 

Still… 

For a moment, the light touch wasn’t so bad. 

Neither of them speaks for the duration of the documentary, and Benoit thinks perhaps Parsifal is fine with letting it go. This feels like a victory at first, until Benoit feels just the smallest hint of fear that it really was just some stupid game for the doctor. 

What’s worse? Parsifal playing around with him, or thinking that they actually came close to having some kind of  _ moment _ ? 

If Benoit hadn’t backed down, what would have happened? 

He can still feel the doctor’s fingers on his lips. Benoit blinks and the credits are rolling and Parsifal is pushing the covers down so he can get some rest. 

“Of course,” Benoit mumbles, the echo of a missed opportunity sending sparks down his spine. 

He starts undoing his tie and decides to turn away from Parsifal, setting his feet on the floor. Too much, and not enough. He hears Parsifal getting comfortable behind him, settling in for the night. Still, they have not spoken. Benoit wonders if he should bring it up, but he can’t make himself open his mouth. Instead, he merely takes his watch, his belt and his button-up off, choosing to rest in his undershirt and slacks.

It feels as though hours of staring at the ceiling have passed when Benoit looks at the clock and notices that it’s only been forty five minutes since they shut the lights off. He sighs. 

_ Where’s a nightmare when you need one? _

“Everything alright?” he hears whispered beside him. 

Benoit swallows, throat unbearably dry. “Can’t sleep.”

“Sorry,” Parsifal says, shifting under the covers. “I’d prescribe something, but I don’t think you’d agree with the particular circumstances.”

“I don’t need pills,” Benoit says. Then, quietly, “sorry.”

“No need for that,” Parsifal says. “I hope you know, you never have to apologize to me.”

Benoit does, in fact, know this, but still the apologies find themselves on his lips. 

“And try not to apologize for apologizing, either,” Parsifal says. Benoit can  _ hear _ the man’s smile in his voice. “Are you tired at all?”

“Not really,” Benoit answers.

“Perhaps you’d like a bedtime story?” Parsifal asks. “I could sing you a lullaby. I’ve been told I have an atrocious voice. Perhaps you’ll flee to a dream just to avoid it.”

_ He seems normal _ , Benoit thinks. No acknowledgement of their close encounter. Why is Benoit getting pissed about it? It’s probably for the best, and Benoit always prefers a simpler outcome.

Almost always.

“Room service is still a viable option,” Parsifal goes on. “We never had dinner. Maybe we could skip to dessert.”

Benoit turns over toward Parsifal, grabbing the man by the shoulders and pulling him in close. Benoit never thought of himself as a particularly skilled kisser, but this isn’t about skill, it’s about making a point. They can’t just ignore what happened, they need to figure out where they stand and discuss it like adults.

Parsifal apparently has missed the point entirely as he fists Benoit’s shirt with one hand and rakes his other hand through Benoit’s hair. A deep sigh escapes Parsifal, surprise and relief melding into a pleased sound. Benoit immediately knows he’s in too deep for the way Parsifal is kissing him back.

“Oh, Ben, thank god,” he says quietly when Benoit pulls back. “I thought you were mad at me.”

“I am,” Benoit asserts. “Were you just going to ignore what happened?”

“I thought that’s what  _ you _ wanted to do,” Parsifal says. “Forgive me, I was following your lead.”

Benoit tries to catch his breath, blinking rapidly against his own stupidity. “What now?”

“Let me kiss you again, you idiot,” Parsifal says, already leaning in for it. 

Benoit doesn’t have enough time to think about it before Parsifal is kissing him. Perhaps he senses Benoit’s sudden anxiety, because he eases up, not breaking the kiss, but slowing down. Parsifal starts pushing Benoit onto his back, pulling himself closer.

“Percy,” Benoit says, voice quiet, unsure. 

“It’s okay,” Parsifal says, hand on Benoit’s cheek. “You don’t have to do anything. I just need to know if it's alright.”

Parsifal presses their lips together again, and Benoit feels like the room is filling up with water. 

“Tell me it's alright,” Parsifal whispers. “Please, let it be alright.”

Benoit just manages to nod. Parsifal sighs into their next kiss, and Benoit lets go of the tension in his shoulders. It doesn’t have to mean what everything else says it should mean. This can just be whatever they want it to be. Hell, it could mean nothing at all. Maybe he’s just doing it for Percy’s sake, and Percy is doing it for Ben. A small exchange, not to be inspected for too long.

Parsifal begins pressing his lips to every inch of Benoit’s face, and Benoit closes his eyes, allowing Parsifal to tilt his head this way and that. It’s clear that Parsifal doesn’t expect much in the way of reciprocation, which is a weight off of Benoit’s chest, but he still occasionally catches some of Parsifal’s skin with his mouth, just to keep the feeling alive on his lips. Benoit knows this will not be something to repeat, so he may as well drink deep. Parsifal gives a satisfied noise of approval with every one of those returned kisses.

When Parsifal touches his hip. Benoit’s eyes open but he says nothing. He can’t deny the little shards of  _ want _ that course through him, asking for more. Fear and anxiety, however, keep him rooted still. Parsifal doesn’t mind at all, running his hand up Benoit’s side, sighing into his collarbone, breathing deep. 

“May I have more of your skin?” Parsifal asks. 

Immediately, Benoit is filled with sharp indecision. To save himself the trouble, he gives a quick answer. “Clothes stay on.”

“Ah, very well,” Parsifal hums back, voice gone silky. “Maybe one day…”

Benoit thinks to tell him to slow his pace, but Parsifal politely rights Benoit’s shirt, flattening it out, before he steals another kiss on the lips and lays his head down beside Benoit’s. 

“You’ve been very kind,” Parsifal says. “But I think it would be rude of me to push you any further.”

Benoit swallows and clears his throat. “I appreciate it.”

Parsifal smooths Benoit’s hair back. “You can relax, I promise. That’s all I need. How are you feeling?”

“I believe I’ll be all set, thank you,” Benoit speaks in a rush. 

Parsifal smiles. “Very cute.”

Benoit lets out a sigh. “Honestly, Percy, I’m having a hard enough time without your teasing.”

Parsifal laughs low in Benoit’s ear. “We all have our vices. Some are more disastrous than others.”

“And let up about the smoking,” Benoit scolds quietly. 

“As your doctor--”

“You’re not  _ my _ doctor,” Benoit interrupts. “Or else this would be rather immoral.”

Parsifal laughs again, turning onto his back, giving Benoit his space. “Much better. Your heart rate is settling. You should be okay. I was worried for a moment you were going to have a panic attack. Perhaps you need a safe word.”

Benoit turns to stare at the ceiling, the implication settling into his stomach. Parsifal would like to do this again. 

“Ben?” Parsifal’s voice is a bit heavy.

Benoit makes a noise to indicate he is listening. 

“Thank you,” he says. “And good night.”

Benoit feels a small pain in his side, something shattered inside him, all cleared but for one little piece stuck deep in the bone. 

 

 


End file.
